


Creep

by SC182



Series: Strays Going Astray [1]
Category: 2 Fast 2 Furious (2003), Fast and the Furious Series
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character of Color, Flirting, Infidelity, Jealousy, M/M, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-15
Updated: 2012-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-03 17:38:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SC182/pseuds/SC182
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's just a job until it's not. (aka the one where Brian was never a cop and met Verone first.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Creep

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N** : Title taken from the the TLC song, "Creep". 
> 
> **Disclaimer** : Property of Universal, Justin Lin and Gary S. Thompson. I'm just borrowing them for a moment.
> 
>  **Spoilers** : General spoilers for all the movies in the franchise.
> 
> Written to fill this prompt: _Brian and Carter in a relationship where Carter is very possessive of Brian...enter Dom, Brian falls for him and they start sneaking around. Carter picks up on what's going on..._
> 
> Translations:  
> Guajiro: A Cuban, most likely a farmer, from the countryside  
> Comprendes: You understand?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collision of sorts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Minor textual refererences to Scarface (1983) and Jay-Z and Kanye West's "No Church in The Wild".

He takes the job as a favor to Han, who calls him five minutes out from Miami International with his newest girl’s boyfriend hot on his heels.  
  
“Dom, this gig’s just easy money. Just show up and drive, man. You can do that in your sleep.” All true, because Dom’s actually done it before. Though it’s not something he’ll ever try repeating again.  
  
The chance to have Han owe him is worth more than the sick pay—the selling point of Han’s pitch—to drive some new money gringo around town. The set-up that puts him here on the palm tree lined and low traffic swath of Vizcaya is Han’s problem sampling new girls like those potato chips he’s always snacking on. Now, he’s leaving the country, hopping a plane to Japan—literally, because there’s some old school machete-slinging guajiro ready to slice, dice, and ginsu his ass for hooking up with the wrong girl.  
  
This is by no means laying low. Quite the opposite, in fact, but far better than taking a chance of staying in L.A. In the City of Angels, he has a problem with devils riding his shoulder, pushing his buttons just a tad too hard, and finding trouble sweeping around him like the bands of tornado.  
  
Coming to Miami is Han’s idea. Basically an invitation he extends to Dom with the promise of sun, girls, flat roads, and a new scene to conquer.  
  
But now Dom’s left holding the bag; he gets Miami and an on the fly job offer while Han skips out for Japan. Somehow, Dom figures that he’s getting the short end of the platinum shining Miami go-go stick.  
  
Han refuses to cough up a name of the thug chasing him around town, says it isn’t at all serious, while blaming the sun and a thousand other stupid things for lighting a fire under his ass to leave. Dom doesn’t waste his time calling bullshit when he pulls in front of a wrought iron fence gleaming high and black, all but screaming – _Keep the fuck out_ — to ninety point five percent of the rest of the world poorer than the prick on the other side.  
  
Japan, though, is a helluva far place to duck out to over some tail.  
  
But Han explains, “Drifting, bro. New age, next wave of the future type stuff is coming out of the heart of Tokyo, and I think my head’s ready to handle the crown.” It’s big enough already anyway.  
  
“You sure about that?” Dom asks, thinking about Han’s ghost routine when the heat turns on. “But do you even speak Japanese? Thought you were Korean.”  
  
Laughter raspy and tinny over the line fills Dom’s ear as Han says, “I am whatever I need to be…Right now, I feel like embracing some Japanese culture, _comprendes_?” He pauses, allowing his laughter to fade under the sound of the kittenish purr of his engine. “I’ll drop you a line whenever I land right side up on four wheels again. Hell, who knows, maybe you’ll end up drifting this way yourself.”  
  
“In your dreams, man.”  
  
The call drops to dead air as the gate swings open in a languid crawl, revealing ground so green and lush with color that it puts the local tropical gardens to shame.  
  
Driving up the cobbled circular drive, he swings the Challenger around the coral fountain shooting fine arches of water into the ascending tiers below the pout, which overflows into the shallow reflecting pool on the ground level. The car turns in an almost perfect circle, stopping barely beyond the main entrance to a house. It’s a subconscious gesture that reinforces rule number one: always know your way out. Any good driver knows that.  
  
Staring up at the great spread of a residence before his eyes seems almost schizophrenic in design. Like the bastard child of a battle royale between the Greeks and Romans, who got trampled by a pack or two of pirates, eager to drop anchor in this pirate cove Valhalla. A real gangster’s paradise this house is. And that’s just Dom’s assessment from outward appearances.  
  
Two muscles for hire pour through the entrance, flanking the doors in their too loud, visually offensive suits. As much as Dom has come to like Miami, the point that is constantly against the Magic City is the fact too many of its citizens are trapped in a Miami Vice fashion time warp. Quite tragic, if you ask Dom. But he walks up to the door, taking in everything that he can and gets the feeling that despite appearances, it’s definitely a place he can see himself hanging around. A silent head tilt nudges them on, moving him through the limestone molded archway into the house.  
  
Time to meet the boss.  
  
His escorts box him as they lead him through wide spaces of floor swimming in sleek lines and simple designs. Passing the kitchen, which stands adjacent to another set of heavy glass doors, Dom almost laughs; he does, finally, crack a little smile. Because the kitchen is the stuff of Han’s dream’s. Steel, industrial-sized fixtures, all big enough to hold a whole cow of two; Dom’s sure this is the real reason Han jumped at the chance to play chauffeur.  
  
They walk into a wall of hot air, heavy like an overheated oven, after passing through the arch of wide-swung glass doors. Dom plucks his glasses from his face and drops them on the collar of his shirt, where they nestle into the ‘v’ left open by the first button on his shirt. This is a rare day indeed; he’s sporting something other than a t-shirt or a body-hugging tank. Calls it dressing to impress.  
  
His vision flares white before adjusting the sunshine. Reflexes tell him to shut his eyes—adjust; no, he fights the instinct and keeps his eyes on the new _boss_. A deeper look at the guy says his instincts are right. Almost immediately he knows this one isn’t the type you take your eyes off of if it can be helped.  
  
The Boss stands with his back to the ocean, which is freaking majestic in its clarity and calm. He stands out, a singular point of black disrupting the canvas of white and light in every direction.  
  
“Carter Verone,” the Boss says by way of introduction.  
  
“Dominic Toretto.” He gets in return.  
  
Dom’s run into more than his share of guys like this. Like Verone. All guys who carry themselves like they have the biggest dick in the room but lack that bit of _finesse_ that comes with knowing what it means to use it.  
  
They take a moment to size each other up. Typical alpha male bullshit, he can hear Mia say. This is supposed to be an audition, he shouldn’t intimidate his new boss on the first day, but he’s aware of how he looks and trying to make himself look otherwise is not only disingenuous but dangerous in select circles. And present company pings his radar as dangerous rather than kumbaya fluffy.  
  
So he looks his fill while Verone does the same. It’s easy to catalog what he says there and it’s a familiar sight. Verone stares back, a sly twist teasing the corners of his lips, with a drink in hand. He’s pretty smooth with the glass despite the hour—eleven AM—a slice of lime hugs the rim and when he drinks it, his heavy gold brick link bracelet slides down his wrist ostensibly so.  
  
In less than ten minutes, Dom manages to read this guy cold. Carter Verone is the most dangerous kind. He’s the type that deliberately pisses in the wind and steps back so he can watch the blowback land on the people behind him.  
  
With this in mind, Dom figures he’s thirty seconds from walking.  
  
That is until Verone speaks, coming off too friendly. “You’re the driver? Anyone ever tell you that you don’t look much like a Han.”  
  
Dom cocks his head just so without answering one or another, then cracks a razor thin smile. “Distant relation. _Real distant_ ,” he feints. Only a true brother from another mother is capable of convincing him to do this.  
  
“Ah, I see,” Verone says, then gestures at the drink in hand. If it’s a test, Dom thinks it’s a pretty poor one. He declines with a silent shake of his head.  
  
Not that shooting the shit isn’t nice and all, but he’s still on the fence—almost completely over it in his head—about staying. He decides to speed this along, “So you’re the guy I’m driving for?”  
  
“No, not me.” Verone sips his drink, deep amber with scant ice cubes. “I think you may be over qualified to be just a driver,” Verone pointedly drags his gaze over the visible swells of muscle beneath Dom’s shirt and Dom’s brow quirks curiously, “it’s not a bad thing really. I think I may have even more use for a guy like you. You’re like a goddamn two for one,” Verone drawls excitedly.  
  
The meeting has gone from initially dead to vaguely interesting. Maybe it’s the sudden comparison to a Mickey D’s value meal that’s actually putting Dom at ease. So Dom asks, crossing his arms over his chest, settling in deep, “What else do you need?”  
  
Verone makes an effusive gesture with his glass in hand. “We’ve had a spot of trouble. Natives getting restless with the way we’re doing things, you know. And because Bri manages to slip Enrique and Roberto every time they’re assigned to him, I think we need some new blood in the mix to keep up.” His eyes go distant then snap back to laser focus. It’s the lock of a man thinking about a good thing. “The last incident with the car was…just too close,” he coughs, clears his throat and takes a stiff drink.  
  
Chauffeur and bodyguard to the boss’s sidepiece? That’s doable. Getting tangentially involved with an alleged kingpin’s affairs doesn’t fit the definition of the normal definition of lying low, but then again, Dom needs some excitement in his life. Why not this?  
  
“How do you know me and Bri will get along?”  
  
Looking impressed, Verone nods, gives a raspy laugh, “We don’t.” He looks up to the balcony, which stands empty, where white curtains shuttering another set of open glass that spill out riding the gentle air currents.  
  
Verone bellows up, “Bri, c’mon down.”  
  
There’s no reply from above and they wait in the sun for Bri to make an appearance. Dom idly wonders how long they’ll have to wait because the sun rains down blisteringly hot and there’s not a single cloud in the sky to offer shade.  
  
His thoughts stop then, maybe it’s a disruption of the air or a bead of focus trained on him, or his sixth sense acting up, but Dom shivers as a tingle passes down his spine.  
  
Time slows as he catches a bloom of white out of the corner of his eye that gradually becomes a fully realized person. Time remains sluggish, lost in this sudden vacuum triggered by Bri’s arrival, and Dom’s heart is now too loud in his ears, making a rattling _pop-thud-thump_ that rings deep in the inner shell with each progressive footfall. There’s no music pulsing through his ears; it’s the pounding of his heart.  
  
Bri isn’t what he expected.  
  
 _Bri_ ain’t a chick.  
  
About as far from being a chick as one can get but damn pretty. Shockingly pretty.  
  
Bri slides in close to Verone, not close enough for Verone’s sake, who pulls Bri closer still and dispels in any suggestion that they’re just being brotherly. Because Dom’s never seen any brothers act like that.  
  
Verone plasters Bri to his side like it’s the status quo—for him it is—and gives him a soft look that’s easily returned. Slowly, he drags his eyes away from Bri and jokes offhandedly, “We’re in this pile of shit because Bri’s refused a bodyguard. Now, no isn’t an option anymore.”  
  
It seems Dom and Verone look to Bri to balk at Verone’s request, but he says nothing, just rolls his eyes—blue, unnervingly blue—and drops them elsewhere. That place happens to be on Dom.  
  
A spell of déjà vu is cast over the moment as Dom watches Bri and Bri returns the favor by watching right back. He’s seen this moment before, felt it even, he just can’t place where. Maybe a seed from an earlier stray thought has found roots and germinated into a logical train of association.  
  
It comes to him in the form of a memory of staying up late on one too many nights with Vince as a kid, watching something that they shouldn’t have. Dom’s just one in a generation of corner hoppers, thugs, rappers, racers, wannabe ballers reared on secret viewings of old battered copies of Scarface on VHS, and later DVD. The movie attaches itself to a secondary association with Miami after heat and beaches. The story of a gangster’s rise to power, going from having nothing to everything, resonates with a wave of guys without fathers and essentially nothing to their names but a name. Most don’t see the movie as Dom does, as a cautionary tale of what happens when you reach too far and take too much; it takes almost losing everything in L.A. to realize the message.  
  
That being a slave to the seven deadly sins is what ultimately brings Tony Montana low by the end.  
  
Greed, vice, avarice all drag him down, but it’s his uncontrollable lust that seals it.  
  
Dom has perfect recall of the scene where Tony sees Elvira for the first time: decides he wants her, lusts for her and obsesses over her until he finally gets her. Tony covets and Dom knows the feeling like a shot to the chest. It’s all déjà vu --Michelle Pfeiffer’s Elvira seared into his memory in that electric blue dress descending in the elevator while white swaths Bri into a golden body just as untouchable, unobtainable, radiantly cool, and Dom wants. He wants so badly.  
  
A small voice tells him to ask himself why he wants. Not that his orientation has ever turned this way. Something about Bri, something other than the fact that he’s probably the most beautiful man Dom’s ever seen, calls to him. Maybe a forgotten face from a race? A sidewalk in L.A.? Another lifetime perhaps?  
  
A man has to have a code to live by, a certain set of principles to be guided by, but not too rigid that he can’t live without breaking them. He makes no promises other than being attracted to fierce makes regardless of model. It’s not a sunstroke induced hallucination that causes him to see those icy chill of those fierce unwavering blue eyes grow warm.  
  
 _Bri_ is short for Brian—six feet and a little extra of rare South Florida natural blondness, possessing peculiarly blue eyes— flinty, sharp like a knife’s edge and Dom catches himself because he’s staring.  
  
A long second ago, Brian happens to be just an assignment, now standing beside Verone, he presents a puzzles Dom is compelled to solve. A glacial prince all wrapped in white, the chiseled lines of face are flawlessly straight and masculine but undercut by the apparent softness of his skin and coral flush of his lips. Blond and blue-eyed never seems so exotic until now.  
  
Brian deftly disengages himself from Verone with the smallest bit of silent communication. The messages is received and Verone lets him go, but not before he asks, “What do you think?”  
  
The look Brian gives him is cool, so frosty Dom can feel ice in the air. “He’ll do,” he says before full detaching from Verone’s side to return to the house. Verone watches every step he makes. Dom does too, though not enough to be noticed.  
  
“You think you can handle the job?”  
  
“Definitely.” Can handle Brian too, Dom thinks.  
  
Out of the Ten Commandments, two are dedicated to preventing coveting.  
  
Minutes before he seems to have enough reasons to walk and never look back long enough to build a bridge to Japan; now he’s seen one very real reason to stay.  
  
“Just tell me when to start.”  
  
Skewed odds only favor him behind the wheel of a car. He glances up at the balcony, it’s still empty, and schools his expression to mask the small swell of acute disappointment he feels.  
  
Dom knows he shouldn’t want this, but he does.  
  
He is so screwed.

* * *

  
  
The routine is the same after his first day. He arrives each day, still dressed to impress, and checks each car over from fender to trunk, roof to undercarriage before waiting for Brian to be ready. Not that he ever waits long; Brian tends to hang about the kitchen or the pool already decked out in one option from his tricolor color scheme. Always blue, winter grey or white for him while Verone monopolizes the dark end of the spectrum exclusively; no matter what color he chooses, he always seems unobtainable and far from reach. Like a star.  
  
Depending on the day, Brian opts for either the Benz—trips to Brickel, Coral Gables, Coconut Grove and the Beach, or the Caddy—for subtly going everywhere else. Never the Escalade, Dom notices quickly, always a car capable of accelerating in under four seconds, turning on a dime and can keep going at breakneck speed if necessary.  
  
Brian’s discomfort at being carted around in the backseat is obvious. The moment he gets inside he goes still—too still, too rigid to be comfortable—sits like a slab of chiseled marble until they arrive at their destination and he can spring into the open air.  
  
Brian challenges him to keep up. Just hops out of the car without a backwards glance and enters whatever building is on the schedule. He’s way too fucking fearless for a person with a big giant target painted across his back. Surprises are a dime a dozen with this one. He’s not the shopaholic, gym-bunny boy-toy Dom assumed the first day. He doesn’t sit at home eating bon-bons, but fits into Verone’s world with eerie grace. Always walks out into the world with a straight back, eyes cutting an icy path through the world, ever strapped—a piece always tucked discretely into the small of back, waiting for use if needed.  
  
Protection is not what Brian needs; someone to watch his back—yes, someone to coddle like Verone wants—no, Brian doesn’t allow that option either. Dangerous and beautiful. Is there anything more attractive than that?  
  
Verone has many enemies. Like any good enemy, they’ve taken notice of where to strike. Dom sticking to Brian closer than his shadow won’t solve the problem; just buffers it for a while longer. Playing shadow gets him closer. Lets him see how Brian talks and acts when away from Verone’s watchful eyes and greedy hands. Everything Dom sees reinforces his thoughts about another place and time and the two of them being close—friends even.  
  
Here and now, Dom watches Brian take care of things for Verone, always playing it cool and calm before returning to the house and the man in black inside. It’s his job to watch Brian, know how he moves, how he operates. But that something he can’t put his finger on tells him that Brian should also be loose and sloppy, too, but forever cool down to his core. The only thing Dom’s noticed that’s lazy about Brian is the cadence of his voice, a weird blend of western accents circling Southern California in each word.  
  
He gets Dom thinking in terms of bold descriptors—careful, bold, aloof, regal, and controlled—the last of which is subjective, he knows Brian flies apart, needs only the right stimulus. When Dom watches him in the rearview mirror, he makes Dom think of jungle cats on the Discovery Channel, so seemingly calm and indifferent but ready to strike at any minute, aloof save for a few exceptions. Carter Verone is that huge exception.  
  
If Brian makes Dom think of jungle cats, then Verone poses as a shark. Ever on the move, he’s predatory but vulnerable if he takes the time to realize it. It’s not his flank that needs watching, it’s all the things above and below him. On the days when they return to the house when he’s back Verone never stops moving: here, there, and everywhere—all over the place, but he always comes back to Brian. Circles him to coral Brian right where he wants him and gets off on doing it. The day Brian looks back at Dom as Verone backs him against the high bar in the kitchen is the day Dom realizes Brian only lets Verone do that to him. He has the power to stop him if he really wants to. Just a matter of desire to stop him.  
  
Unlike a real shark, Verone has no scales, just hard edges too embedded to cover up. It doesn’t matter how much polish Carter Verone uses to blend in with the rest of the wealthy elite. The edges are all scuffed, indelible scars from his years spent climbing up and out of the hole he’d been born into. In life everyone carries scars—Dom, definitely, and Brian, probably, but they keep theirs covered up while Verone tries to bury his under layers of designer fabric, gaudy jewelry and keeping a leash on the one person who’s seen him through it.  
  
As days roll into weeks, Dom finds it easier to not think about the almost colossal train wreck that is L.A. or Han drifting in Japan or a couple of dozen other things that cause him to wake up in a cold sweat on nights that aren’t as rare as he’d like.  
  
In the meantime, he drives because it’s his job. He watches and waits because he wants to.

* * *

  
  
He almost misses it when Brian starts watching back.  
  
Verone works a lot. It’s the opposite of what’s expected of an illegal enterprise. That comparison to Tony Montana fits the bill perfectly, though Dom’s never seen either Carter or Brian using the supply, whatever it may be. Verone has vices—Brian, alcohol, and a tendency to let his volcanic temper fly, but cigars are his favorite excess of pleasure.  
  
When Dom arrives that morning, the scent of arid scent of tobacco smoke is heavier than normal. Despite the sweltering ninety-two degrees reigning supreme outside, the house feels cold, too quiet to be a coincidence, and he goes deeper to investigate. His own piece burns against the hollow of his back as a reminder should anything be amiss.  
  
He finds Brian in the kitchen, leaning against the counter as he watches the undisturbed stillness of the pool beyond the glass doors. For once it seems his expression betrays how he feels, and it’s all anger that Dom sees.  
  
Dom wants to ask, but Brian won’t tell him because keeps his own confidence.  
  
Instead, he diffuses the situation by blatantly sidestepping the obvious tension. “Are you going out today?”  
  
When Brian turns to him, his gaze is marginally brighter. It lingers. Pins him in place to scrutinize him and the smile that manifests afterwards is one that he’s only seeing for the first time.  
  
“C’mon, let me get the keys,” answers Brian, slipping away from the kitchen with a transfixed Dom, a little blinded by the white on white on white Brian’s sporting that day, staring after him.  
  
The keys Brian hands over are for the car Dom’s been curious about since he started. The drive to the house diverges to a path connecting to a freestanding garage at the periphery of the eastern edge of the propriety. Though there’s space for three cars, only one sits inside. A sweet silver Porsche 356 A Roadster. As cherry as Dom’s ever seen.  
  
He completes the usual check and pronounces it pristine. Since it’s a Roadster, there’s not backseat to speak of so Brian rides shotgun—finally and visibly calms to his usual level of Zen.  
  
“Where to?” Dom asks.  
  
Brian smiles again, “Just drive.” And Dom obliges.  
  
They end up driving everywhere and nowhere; easing through residential thoroughfares to avoid the chaos that’s I-95 on any given day. On the palm tree lined streets with colorful flowers bursting between the gaps, Dom admits that the city is really beautiful. Despite the common weather, Miami is completely different from L.A. in style and temperament, and he finds he actually likes the difference.  
  
By the time they return to Vizcaya, Brian decides they should put the Roadster to bed and go for something with a hardtop because dark clouds are rolling in from the east and Roadster’s shell top has yet to be tested against Miami’s torrential downpours. Switching to the Caddy, which is normally fine, feels like a disappointing downgrade compared to the precision engineering and the zippy handling of the Porsche.  
  
Brian directs him up to North Miami Beach, to a shady spot nestled on the border of the marina and an adjacent beach. Brian tells him the shrimp are good—amazing is more like it, according to Dom—and treats Dom to lunch and the most conversation they’ve had since Dom started the job.  
  
They don’t talk about the catalyst for the Cold War at the house. Instead, they talk about the Roadster and cars, which gets him the story of why he’s there in the first place. Apparently, Verone pissing off business rivals isn’t anything new. Said rivals decide to show their displeasure by shooting up Brian’s car—restored personally by him—while he’s inside it. Since he’s part cat, Brian manages to walk away unscathed but the car finds an eternal grave. Fucked up beyond all recognition.  
  
The day slips away, bleeding from blue to dusky orange to bruise black-blue. Brian tells him to pull over at the Seven-Eleven up the road from the marina. It’s a quick trip and Brian returns with a single bag, glass bottles inside clanking as he gets back in the car.  
  
The next set of directions Brian gives him isn’t for the house. That’s how they end up at the beach, one of the few places in the county where the lights of the skyline can be seen along with the stars.  
  
Why this place, Dom wonders as he drives to the closest sand spot near the ocean. He periodically flicks his eyes up to the mirror in an effort to discern what Brian’s thinking. Right now, he’s going through the bag, removing a case of longneck beer bottles and a cellophane wrapped package of smokes.  
  
That’s new.  
  
He looks up again, this time Brian’s eyes are waiting for him.  
  
Brian skins the plastic covering the pack and pops the lid while keeping his eyes squarely on Dom. “Got a problem?”  
  
Dom shrugs, “Just looking.” He’s been looking for a while. It’s only now that he’s been caught.  
  
“It’s rude to stare.” The cigarette dangles precariously low on Brian’s bottom lip waiting to be lit.  
  
“Didn’t think you noticed.” Dom baits him because Brian wants the challenge.  
  
Now Brian notices Dom watching him all right, especially tonight. “I’m good a multitasking.” Brian replies with the cigarette still cold between his lips. “I notice quite a lot.”  
  
The car finally reaches the sandy edge and Dom parks. “I’m sure you do. That’s a great way to stay alive but you know that already.”  
  
“Learned it , lived it,” Brian smirks, then grins, keeping his stare fully trained on Dom for one, two, three, four… the seconds add up before Brian turns away, a satisfied smile curling the corner of his lips. “Don’t forget to watch the road.” Then, he hops out and stands like a torch in the darkness of the beach. “—when we go back,” he slams the door.  
  
Dom has no second thoughts about how he feels. And the volleying right now is doing nothing to temper those feelings. As he follows to join Brian leaning against the Caddy’s grill, he thinks about the perfect rule for this occasion.  
  
Rule number two: don’t get turned around.  
  
When he joins Brian, the pack is held up in offering as faint wisps of smoke rise to the sky.  
  
He declines with a shake of his head. “Didn’t know you smoked.”  
  
“On occasion, not too often. Just sometimes you need something to calm your nerves.” The cigarette burns slowly, Brian taking only the smallest of breathes to draw out the nicotine.  
  
With that glacial fire Brian emits, knowing what makes him tick is matter of careful study. One that Dom won’t ever fully master. “You have nerves?” He only jokes.  
  
Brian takes a long draw of the cigarette, burning it down to the filter. “Why?” He asks, crushing the cherry-tipped stick beneath his heel and the rest of the pack in his hand.  
  
Dom watches him make a pathetic excuse of a jump shoot, miss, and have to retrieve crumpled package from the sand. “Thought you were made of ice.”  
  
“Only when it’s too hot outside,” Brian replies, laughing.  
  
Brian shares his beer--Corona, another point attractive quality to Dom, and the silence between rests comfortably.  
  
There are just as many things Dom doesn’t know about Brian as Brian doesn’t know about him. Thinking about the job makes some decisions easier, like not asking questions. It’s his job to drive, not flap his gums. So surprises, like tonight pop up, and give him a small thrill of excitement.  
  
Something big brings Brian out today. Ultimately, something Verone has done. How these two came to be together in their unrepentant symbiotic-parasitic relationship is beyond him. Whatever the story is, Dom doesn’t ask nor does Brian volunteer to share details. Observations paint a picture of something deep with years forming layers to cement them together; a cord binding them tight enough to strangle, one that Verone seems highly unlikely to sever soon. If ever.  
  
Dom feels Brain watching him. They’re both loose, buzzed on the beer and Dom stares back, this time without the intent of apologizing for it. Brian beckons for his empty bottle and takes it to toss away. When he returns, he doesn’t take up his position beside Dom, but stands in front of him, blocking Dom’s line of sight to the blackest waves he’s ever seen.  
  
Brian watches him again. Blue eyes roving over him, assessing him for something Brian wants. Finally, he levels his gaze on Dom’s and waits. He inches closer by slipping between the open gap between Dom’s feet, stopping just short of Dom’s mouth. “So you gonna fuck me or not?” His voice comes out rough, a whisper compared to the waves behind him.  
  
Dom can smell the faint mixture of tobacco and alcohol on Brian’s breath and he still wants. “Not a part of the job description,” he says.  
  
Brian steps in, angles his mouth to Dom’s ear. “I’m sure you have the skills to test the limits…Got drive and initiative. Got other things too, I bet.”  
  
What can he say? Dom likes a challenge.  
  
He draws Brian closer, tangling his fingers in the roots of those blond curls that burn bright even in the night. Brian’s lips seal over his and steal his breath in a long series of slow kisses. So faint, they feel like caresses. Those lips, so pink and soft looking, are just as he imagines and they’re single-minded in learning the contours and flavor of Dom’s. He loses count of how long they’ve been entwined, but he feels hot—dizzy even, the lack oxygen starting to get to him.  
  
One look at Brian’s mouth—much redder and swollen now—Dom’s back on him, giving Brian the same head rush from his lips and tongue stroking, tasting, nipping at the soft swollen edges. All that white Brian’s wearing is soft under Dom’s hands, especially the pants, which rub against the hard line of his zipper in slow, small circles.  
  
The last thing they need is some bullshit charge, which is very likely with how fast they’re going. They’re so close Dom _feels_ the thought pass through Brian’s mind. Brian steps back then Dom pulls him along, around the side of the car to the backseat. It feels like seventeen all over again. They’re making it in the backseat of a Caddy, GM’s finest, like God and America intended for all good ol’ red-blooded American boys.  
  
Their bodies going at it, too fast and friction hungry, his hands starved to touch Brian anywhere and Brian kissing Dom with fingers curled into his back, like he’s the last lifeline to all that is.  
  
All that want Dom has renders his hands strangely too clumsy, gripping too hard but Brian doesn’t push him away, just holds on tighter on his end. So much want and he can finally have. His lips, the smell of his skin, the heat from his body—all have Dom addicted.  
  
At the intersection of Brian stroking his cock with the mastered technique of wax on-wax-off as he works his way down the open soft highway of Brian’s throat, Dom tries to make a mental note to take the car to an all night carwash. Can’t let the sex smell linger. Then Brian’s fingers curl and crook just right, and the thought’s wiped from memory.  
  
Brian says there’s no sin as long as there’s permission. Funny, Dom doesn’t recall either of them asking Mr. Cock of the Walk for his permission, may as well be a felony what they’re doing. Brian clutches his shoulder blades desperately and drags his lips over the hinge of Dom’s jaw while their hips sync up and roll. Somewhere out there this is probably a felony, but only affirms that doing bad can feel _oh so good_.  
  
Especially when Brian does _that_.  
  
And _that_. Over and over again.  
  
This is how it starts.

* * *

  
  
Verone is never home.  
  
He’s always somewhere else outside the house for which Dom will always be eternally grateful. He sees him in passing sometimes--when Verone leaves with Enrique and Roberto trailing after him like overgrown puppies on late mornings. Then it’s just the two of them in the house and Brian spends time giving him tours.  
  
They start with the garage.  
  
Brian mentions the Roadster to get him out there but he doesn’t stop anywhere close to the car. Glides right past it to lean against the work bench. Dom closes the door and stalks up to him, feeling very much like they’re playing cat and mouse, though it’s not clear which is which. Brian draws him in by his belt loops and puts his mouth to work keeping Dom quiet.  
  
Dom’s hands roam everywhere, soaking in the naked expanse of Brian’s arms. Brian’s skin smells like chlorine from the pool and his tongue delivers the faintest trace of something sweet. Dom craves that delicious skin and drops his hands between the flimsy cotton of Brian’s tank, memorizing the touch of every curve and valley.  
  
A simple turn gets Brian reoriented inside the loop of Dom’s arms. He leans against the workbench and arches his neck as Dom drags his mouth over every exposed inch. Brian presses back deliberately rolling his hips over Dom’s cock that juts hard and demanding. He drags one of Dom’s hands from under his shirt to below the band of his sweatpants, where his cock rests leaking over his thigh.  
  
Fuck, no underwear. _Slut._  
  
Brian’s freakishly adept to multitasking. While Dom tunnels his finger around his cock, Brian presses back and passes back a foil package of a condom then goes back to bracing himself against the bench.  
  
This is how he ends up with his ass in the air, Dom’s hands palming his hips, stroking his thighs in counter-rhythm to his strokes of his fingers on Brian and his dick in Brian. His fingernails catch on the fine blond hairs peppering Brian’s toned flawless skin. He sounds like he’s running a marathon, breath all out of whack, harsh and shallow while Brian… _moans_ , mutters nonsense, and thrusts his hips back to meet each snap of Dom’s hips.  
  
There are two things in this world that Dom is great at: one is driving and the other is fucking. For some, they’re the same thing. As Brian reaches back to wrap his arm around Dom’s neck to draw him closer— _goddamn it, closer_ — Dom shows him just how good he is at doing both.  
  
Hard snap of his hips and twist of his fist and he calls this double clutching.  
  
 _Then the office…_  
  
Brian brings him in here and sinks down on the plush leather couch, drawing Dom down by the collar of his shirt. Dom falls down on him heavy but Brian can take it and peels the layers away. Dom pushes up the shirt that matches Brian’s eyes too eerily, pops the button and zipper on his jeans, forcing them down, and through Brian’s own magic—off.  
  
Dom’s pants are dropped in a whoosh, leaving them cock to cock. Brian just moves him, parts his legs wide and welcomes Dom inside. And the rock together slow, almost sweetly, less frantically than the night in the car. Brian’s cock juts up towards his belly and it curls, leaving wet paths of pre-come as Dom rubs against it. Dom pumps his hips just like that and Brian bites his lip as his eyes flutter.  
  
Again, he wants and just takes. He stops rocking against Brian and backs off, so he can bend low. He’s has a lot of firsts with Brian, this one included, but he doesn’t stray from what he wants. He flicks his tongue over the first spot, acquiring the musky salty taste and that extra flavor that’s just Brian on his tongue, then he works on each remaining line. He slips lower, dropping his mouth inches from Brian’s cock flushed red and leaking. Leaking for him, he almost crows. Dom pops the head in his mouth and tries to not use teeth, maybe he uses too much as Brian closes his eyes and throws his head back, the muscles along his stomach going taut as Dom sucks gently.  
  
“Dom...Dom…Dom…Dom…” Brian chants like a filthy prayer.  
  
And Dom goes deeper, uses his tongue a lot and isn’t so bad for a first timer.  
  
Brian pulls him back up with a surprising show of strength. His legs lock around Dom’s hips keeping him in place and they kiss; Brian’s tongue curls over Dom’s getting to taste himself there and he cants his hips up in invitation, desire made clearly known.  
  
He gets Brian ready and loose and slips inside, then he _moves_. Dom holds Brian’s long legs up and open as he works, wants to watch as they merge, watch as he feeds Brian his dick and Brian just takes it. Every inch. Allows him to do it again and again and again.  
  
Drawing it out won’t last too long. He slows down as he jerks Brian off and tugs his sack. When Brian finally comes, he sprays his stomach in long ropey blasts. Even if Dom doesn’t focus on the canvas of white on Brian’s belly, all he can see is white when he finally stills and he shoots into the condom overwhelmed by Brian’s heat and tightness.  
  
So much white, this is what it must mean to see stars.  
  
  
 _The shower…_  
  
That day he comes into find Brian in the pool swimming.  
  
Already part cat, Brian shows there must be some fish in the mix as he slices through the water in clean, splash-less lines. Dom stands by silently, leaning into the available shade because it’s already too damn hot for so early in the morning. When Brian surfaces finally, he pops his head through the water and immediately rotates his eyes to find Dom, lands on him on the first try.  
  
Chlorine always fucks with the eyes, even seasoned swimmers come out of pools looking like they’ve spent a week crying . Brian’s eyes glow piercing blue over faint pink watching him.  
  
When he rises from the water, they slide like points on the same track of motion towards each other. Neither being chicken enough to look away as the other approaches. Brian smiles all perfect white teeth, clearly liking the look of Dom in a suit sans tie while he likes Brian as he currently is—wearing just about nothing.  
  
Brian dries off on a fluffy white towel left on the back of a chaise deck chair. His hair, now wet, curls more wildly and rebels by going dark with hints of pure yellow riding the tips. Once done, Brian gets him to follow with a simple “C’mon” and they enter the house, peaceably silent, to climb the stairs.  
  
Despite the towel around his hips, the climb affords Dom the perfect opportunity to watch the easy traction, the subtle swing of Brian’s hips in motion; it’s a fantastic view.  
  
“Ten guesses where we’re going. The first nine don’t count,” Brian says over his shoulder.  
  
All right, Dom only has two options and he’d rather save his voice for other purposes. Though he follows along, pressing his chest deeper into Brian’s back as they go, dogging his heels through the winding hallway, the plush carpet below keeping their footsteps quiet.  
  
They cut through one door, leaving behind a perfectly composed bed, and enter another, a bathroom that’s white, bright and too freaking spacious for words. Brian turns the dial inside the shower stall; almost instantaneously steam begins to bubble and fog the glass. The glass walls enclose a space certainly large enough for half a dozen, more than comfortable for two, and the way Brian drops the towel says they’ll need every inch. And more.  
  
Like this—inside heavily lit space, behind a closed door, without words competing with the patter of water flowing down to the drain—is when Dom should think. Really ask himself what are they doing. Ask himself what he’s doing pressing Brian against the tiled wall, kissing him and inhaling his scent that loses the chemical sting more and more with each passing second. Like this he can really see Brian: feel the tickle of his barely there stubble on his cheek, feel the flat wideness of his chest against his own, feel the stubborn hardness grinding into his hip, and finds it hard to be repealed by any of it.  
  
Brian’s so fucking beautiful and wanting and willing, so free with himself like this in front of Dom, and it makes Dom eager, turns his crank and shots molten heat up his spine. He’s always been a legs and ass man. Brian has more than enough of each to keep Dom sufficiently interested. Tits, he likes in small hand fulls, just generous enough to cup with his hand, and Brian has enough, a slight swell of muscle that Dom can curl his fingers under and caress, pull, lift. And Brian gasps in his mouth when he thumbs his nipples, flat and wide, just beginning to peak into hard points.  
  
Does Verone do this?  
  
Make him get off on just a touch.  
  
Verone’s been here recently on Brian’s skin, leaving behind five starry points on the flair of his hips. His mark. A reminder of who Brian belongs to. Dom covers the bruises with his hands, easily hiding them from sight as water sloshes over them.  
  
Whatever Verone does isn’t this. Not the drip slow slide of his lips down Brian’s neck, nuzzling all the prominent cords there, not the surprisingly kittenish pecks scattered across his collarbones. Definitely not _this_ : the simultaneous drop of his head and squeezing by his rough hands, pushing those barely there tits within mouth distance. So he sucks with lips then tongue, circling the smooth skin around the nipple, committing it to memory—its unique smoothness and just laves the spot until Brian clutches his head and forces him to take more.  
  
He sucks, nips, bathes the other one. He feels Brian’s body grow tense and electrical beneath his hands. Feels the vibration of his head smacking the tiled wall. Hears his teeth clench and mouth sigh when Dom stops.  
  
It seems Dom used to have reasons for not doing _this_ , whether this is sex with a man or sex in a shower is inconsequential. They stand under converging streams of water, which refuse to go cold, and he savors the victory. They’re still more dirty than clean, but neither has fallen and broken his neck, a pesky old fear, and Dom flows all over Brian without leaving a mark.  
  
He smiles over Brian’s mouth, which comes open for him so easily. Brian’s lips curl and open, pulling him in happily, and the smile that surfaces outpaces his eyes in brightness.  
  
Verone can’t come close to ever doing same.

 

 _The kitchen…_  
  
It’s been ten minutes since the door closed, taking Verone and crew away.  
  
Now Brian stands across from him, looking too satisfied and just being ridiculous.  
  
Dom snorts, “Three minutes?” That’s all Brian thinks he can last. He’s insulted.  
  
Brian smiles boldly, indulgently, though purposely ignoring Dom’s expression of mild indignation. “Yep, three minutes. If you can handle it, that is?”Dom has yet to see what Brian is truly capable of. That look of disbelief is sure to dissolve fast when Brian finally demonstrates all that he can do. “So are you ready?”  
  
“Yeah,” he rumbles, his voice going desert dry.  
  
It happens so fast, Brian lunging across for the counter to pull him in. Freaking sucker punch fast. Steals his breath and hits him with the bite of cool orange lingering on his lips and tongue like a shameless thief. He flashes that smile full of the unmitigated spark of mischief as _before_ that goads Dom to round the bar like a sailor heeding a siren’s call.  
  
The huge breakfast bar stands between them, the remnants of breakfast—all slices of fruits, a piece Brian plucks into his mouth while training his gaze on Dom, and Dom just has to test him.  
  
Earlier when Dom arrives, he gets the opportunity to hover outside the kitchen, watching Verone circle Brian again until he has Brian’s body stuck flush against him and arms looped over his waist to keep him there. Verone kisses the way he acts—fast and attacking, gives Brian only one option—retreat, which Brian obstinately refuses to take.  
  
Brian knows he’s there.  
  
While Verone--Carter, in this moment—kisses with eyes closed, steadfast in completing his mission to possess Brian and tries to bend Brian to his will. Brian follows; yeah, just rides it out, but keeps his eyes on Dom, cut to sapphire slits and smoldering. Challenging Dom to blink first. Look away from Verone’s hands trapping him, his lips trying to own Brian’s skin.  
  
Dom can play stubborn too. He remains as a voyeur, catches himself before laughing in the face of Verone’s sudden surprise. A particular curl of Brian’s tongue and yeah, he can almost feel the shiver again down his back. A new trick for Verone. Old one to Dom. Brian does it well. When Brian flicks his eyes away, almost completely closed, Dom steps back to give them a minute.  
  
Verone leaves smug and happy, but Dom has the gauntlet and Brian won’t let him forget it.  
  
Sick of being pushed and jerked around, Brian pushes _him_ , gets him against the cool granite edge of the counter and lays all six feet on him. They’re silent minus the whir of the A/C and the stream of inane chatter from the radio across the room. The slide of their clothes builds static and Dom leans into the electricity under Brian’s fingertips.  
  
The chatter dries up on the dial, transitioning to a sticky, synchronized staccato, slow and intimating something dirty. Dirty pop, how appropriate. Then Brian backs off, reverses down Dom’s body drawing his hands over the muscles as he stops in front of Dom’s fly.  
  
He looks up at Dom, his fever red lips still smiling and says “Three minutes,” then takes the zipper down in a blink.  
  
He doesn’t waver, just keeps his gaze squarely on Dom despite Dom hanging out in the air, hard and vibrating impatiently. When Brian takes the head, licks a long stripe, he commits himself to handling the fire stoking low in Dom’s belly like the implicit contract between spark and fuse.  
  
Brian knows what he’s doing while watching Dom. He seals his lips and slides down inch after inch, reverses back to the ridge below the head and accelerates hard, tongue dragging along the underside tickling the prominent veins as he goes.  
  
Rule number three: To know how someone fucks is to know how they drive. By this rule, Brian is certifiably crazy.  
  
He bears down on Dom, almost to the root. Brian doesn’t bother with making noise, just allows the radio with its sweetly veiled instructions to lick, suck, kiss, to fill the void. Then slides lower, still as tight as a nut around a bolt, and travels his strong pliable fingers over hard swell of Dom’s thigh then spider-crawls them on spindly fingertips to his balls, which are hard and heavy.  
  
That mouth—Brian’s—is sharper than a knife, more destructive than an atomic bomb, and he has Dom under his sight. Dom tries but can’t muster any resistance against the sensory assault on his skin, his dick, and his control, and the bastard knows it. Just hollows his cheeks and laps his tongue hard into the slit and…that’s just it.  
  
He’s done.  
  
And Brian…  
  
Spread his knees for support and takes him, every drop until the explosion subsides. Dom is the one blown apart, flushed and wrung-out, his eyes blown black as Brian sits back like a cat lapping up the last traces of cream. “Told you three minutes.”  
  
Brains not completely addled, Dom snorts, shaking his head, “Can’t be.” But the song is still going, stirring itself up to fade. It’s one Dom’s heard before and he stands corrected.  
  
Three minutes? Felt more like a marathon.  
  
The silence is painfully short-lived as a new song fills the void. A voice, as rough as Dom’s feels, murmurs on about going to the candy shop and the offer to lick his lollipop. Everything else burns away as they laugh, freaking howl at the surplus of cheese in the lyrics and uncanny coincidence.  
  
He pulls Brian back to his feet and watches those long legs unfurl with liquid grace. Brian’s mouth tilts up, his lips are shinier than neon on black, and they open, offering what Verone only takes. And Dom takes, too. Only with absolute permission from Brian when he does.  
  
They stay like this with only the radio cutting into their bubble of quiet. Dom’s only spare thought outside of, well, Brian, is the shit that gets put on the radio these days. Just awful.  
  
  
 _The car…_  
  
A late afternoon trip to West Miami catches them in a rainstorm on a side road off of Alligator Alley surrounded by low marshes.  
  
Dom climbs in the back thankful for the extra room in the Benz’s backseat. As thunder rattles the car and the rain pours in sheets, it only takes a look to thaw Brian’s cool icy façade, melt it down to the quick, and they gravitate closer together along the same intangible chain anchoring them.  
  
Like a reel from a black and white movie, the scenes flicker out, soundless—drowned out by the storm. Disjointed but connected.  
  
A blur of pants being tossed.  
  
Lap straddled, fingers intertwining.  
  
Body rolling like an ocean wave.  
  
Finger to mouth—hot, wet, and slow. Suck.  
  
Thumbs hook over pelvic grooves.  
  
Fingers curl, cupping the rise of a hard ass, lifting it up and open.  
  
Bouncing hard—fast like whipcord strikes.  
  
Muscles straining with each slide down.  
  
Filling and being filled.  
  
Kiss now, one breath.  
  
So hot and tight inside. Dom wants in. Brian lets him, keeps him buried deep.  
  
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fu--…oh yeah.  
  
Just rain hitting the glass with no more than three feet visibility.  
  
Still connected on a swampy stretch of quarter mile.  
  
This is the whole world.  
  
  
 _The bed…_  
  
Verone works late again.  
  
That’s why Brian ends up on the doorstep of Dom’s duplex. The place isn’t much, but it’s decently priced, centrally located, and comes with a garage. Now the best thing about it is Brian showing up in a fashionably tight white t-shirt, blue jeans and a couple of bags of takeout in each hand. He looks like spread in Ocean Drive magazine, selling what Dom can only imagine.  
  
Brian tempts him with conversation and food—hot, spicy and Cuban. Dom supplies the beer as Brian tells him sweet dirty stories about fantasy cars he constructs in his head with mods sick enough to fill Dom with simultaneous pangs of regret and hunger. Great ideas, all of them so detailed Dom can see them like specters in the air, but unrealized for more reasons than a few. All roads to why stemming from the connection between Brian and Verone. He’s already great, add in freedom and Brian will be uncatchable. Dom wants just as much.  
  
When they finish, they sit together on the old beat-up couch that came with the place in satisfied quiet. Brian scans his place casually, no distinct emotions playing across his face. Dom slides into his old hobby of watching Brian, doesn’t stop even when caught. Brian’s eyes catch on the big silver crucifix resting over his heart. A brow cocks inquisitively.  
  
“A lot of history,” Dom says and finishes his beer.  
  
They carry mountains of invisible history with them. Dom’s remains scorched into a desert highway east of LA and scattered to points of sundry for God knows how long. Brian carries the burden of promises made and blood spilled. They know each other like different sides of the same coin. Always so connected that Dom can only ask _what if_.  
  
Brian stands up, pulling Dom with him, knowing his thoughts too, Dom suspects. Brian finds his bed just as easy as having been to his place a thousand times before. Then they’re falling down onto the unmade sheets, moving snail slowly as they drop on the mattress that protests in a low groan.  
  
And for all the time and space they have for the moment, he doesn’t consider it a disappointment that they don’t fuck.  
  
They go deeper.  
  
To move in a slow rhythm, a simple slide that forces Brian to arch up as Dom presses down. Dom likes this, likes it slow enough to watch Brian’s cheeks flush and his neck grow warm and red from the weight of Dom’s stare alone. Shallow furrows dig into Dom’s back as Brian rakes his fingers over every indomitable rise of muscle. The pace they set is slow but saturated in desperation, like famine is set to return, leaving them only with the option of starvation. So they hunger: hunger to kiss, to touch, to taste.  
  
Dom feels Brian radiate heat like a furnace and writhe like he’s lost his bones. That same fire low in Dom’s belly makes him impossibly harder—and goddamn—he can’t get close enough, can’t have enough of Brian, who tasks himself with learning the shape and texture of Dom’s scalp with dedication of Braille reading fingers. No inch left untouched.  
  
So he wants the same. Tries to learn all that he can as he hitches Brian’s leg higher and bows slightly under the heel digging into his quad, and he moves to bury his fingers deeper in that hair that teases him to touch. Dom grinds down with the singular desire to know more.  
  
To know how Brian smells when his eyes flutter shut.  
  
To know how his lips taste when makes that sound—“ _Ah, there_.”  
  
To know how he quivers when Dom teases his mouth and drags the tip of his tongue from his lips to the hollow of his throat.  
  
There are rules in this, even now, because they know how screwed they’ll be if they get caught. But the threat is isn’t enough to stop Dom this time. He has to see this moment etched into Brian’s skin.  
  
He pushes up Brian’s shirt and stares down at the canvas of clear pink skin before him then kisses his way down to the shy groove of Brian’s navel. One kiss. Another. Almost worshipful. Those long lean fingers of Brian’s continue to rove over his shoulders and head, so sure and encouraging.  
  
Dom doesn’t care about the rules. Fuck ‘em. He sucks hard, hears Brian hiss under him, and pulls back to back to observe the red mark bloom over Brian’s skin like a star going nova.  
  
That’s his mark on Brian’s skin. The way it should be.  
  
Eventually, they come –tangled together and so messy that they barely unwind when they fall asleep, wrapped around each other like jungle vines. Sleeping together is the one thing they haven’t done until now and it feels like the most sacred seal for them to break.  
  
Dom’s the worst kind of sinner: a coveter. Knows this even in his dreams. He always had a problem with wanting what he knows he can’t have but takes it anyway. That’s all L.A. has come to be and he’s sworn not to make the same mistake twice. His one saving grace is that Brian wants him to, gets drunk on Dom as much as Dom is drunk on him.  
  
When he wakes the next morning, Brian is already gone.  
  
The last rule makes a hollow sound when he thinks about. Rule number four: don’t get in too deep. He’s already too far gone to listen.

* * *

  
  
They complete the circuit once. Then twice. Finally, they progress through infinite combinations and locations because they can.  
  
He almost believes they can keep this up. That Brian will follow him when he’s done, ride at his side as they blow this town. Brian has a hold on him—bone deep it is, and it’s changing him.  
  
Because he’s never been a dreamer.

* * *

  
  
He shows up for work with a dream stuck in his head. A haunting scene with his dad’s old Charger, rumbling on an industrial stretch of road, a precise quarter mile in L.A. Brian beside him, riding in a low slung orange rocket. Then they swim through the air, gliding over a train until he’s snagged and dragged back to the earth, barrel-rolling over concrete inside a steel cage with bars thicker than Lompoc’s. But there’s Brian at the end pulling him out, giving him a set of keys to escape. He takes them and looks at the road, open in every direction. He turns back to Brian to ask which way and finds him gone.  
  
Dom wakes to the thundering rush of blood in his ears and a surge of adrenaline that won’t keep him still. It haunts him for the rest of the morning and only goes silent when Roberto meets him inside the door, his expression the usual blend of flat and stupid, barking, “The Boss wants to see you.”  
  
No surprise shows on his face before Roberto leads him to the office. They pass Enrique in the living room, reading the day’s edition of the Nuevo Herald; he doesn’t bother to look up.  
  
He wonders where Brian is when they reach the door. Roberto opens the door to usher Dom inside, but doesn’t follow. Just shuts it and walks away. Dom listens to his heavy steps as he moves farther down the hall.  
  
The office looks the same save for the ghost-like flashes that flicker into his memory when he looks at the leather sofa along the back wall. Memories of him and Brian surge up like a fount, springing forth freely until he looks at Carter Verone behind his desk, looking far too pleased with himself.  
  
“It’s a good day,” his voice lilts, almost song-like. He takes a puff of his fat cigar, smell so pungent, it can only be Cuban. “The kind of day where everything just falls into place.”  
  
Dom knows all the exits in the room: the door, the window behind the desk, and the window in the bathroom. Knowing this, he still treads carefully. “That so.”  
  
Verone billows a cloud of smoke into the air, smiles sharply as he nods. “Yeah, feels good to type up loose ends. That’s why you’re here.”  
  
Dom feels the heft of his gun against his back. It’s there if he needs it.  
  
Verone looks almost thoughtful for a second, but not enough to drop Dom’s guard. “I took care of my security issues. _Reasoned_ with them, basically, and got them to see our problems from my perspective.”  
  
“If that’s true, why do you need me?” Verone never struck him as the negotiation type, unless the negotiation is carried out on the bully end of a bulldozer.  
  
“That’s right, I don’t.” He leans back, smiling with too many teeth, now looking very much like a shark. “I like you because you’re direct. You can’t get a straight answer out of most people but you can with you. It’s…refreshing.”  
  
Verone opens the top drawer of his desk, Dom watching his every move, then he pauses. His eyes light up suddenly—to sudden for Dom’s liking, then he pulls back his hand. With it, a manila shipping envelope stuffed so full, the corded clasp can barely keep it closed.  
  
“For you,” Verone says, sliding the package over. “Now that things are back to normal, I know Brian will be glad to not have you on top of him anymore.” No insinuation in his voice, but he’s too smart to deliberate place any there.  
  
Dom’s jaw flares slightly then relaxes; it’s the only reaction Verone’s going to get from him. When he picks up the envelop fat with stacks of crisp bills-- at least six he feels, his eyes drop to the red, split knuckles on his left hand. They’re freshly busted, and Dom steps back with money in hand and muscles coiled to strike.  
  
“Where’s Brian?” He rumbles, short and clipped.  
  
Verone shrugs, “Around. He’s not your concern anymore, so I think you should take this and go. I won’t tell you twice. it’s time for the fun and games to be over.”  
  
Those busted knuckles hook Dom’s attention. Verone follows his line of sight and makes a show of wringing his hands. Dom doesn’t underestimate how powerful Brian can be if tested, but he has to wonder if he’ll fight back if the force doing the shoving is Carter.  
  
“Oh, _these_?” Verone pushes his tongue into his cheek and clicks his tongue. “These were for business purposes… Ever the faithful bodyguard, I’d never touch him like that. Not that it’s any of your business.”  
  
He won’t leave this house without Brian. “I want to see him.”  
  
“Like I said, he’s around. If he wants to see you, he’ll see you.”  
  
Verone doesn’t waste time with any bullshit spiel about this services no longer being needed. Just inclines his head to the door and pointedly directs Dom out. He clutches the package tightly until he is forced to leave.  
  
As he walks out, Verone’s voice picks up conversationally. “Just because I didn’t say anything about you two fucking all over the place doesn’t mean I didn’t know. I knew. And I let him have this because it’s just the once--”Dom swings his head low, listens intently, “I kinda like you so I’m gonna let you walk out that door… But if you ever mark him again, come back looking for seconds, I’ll end you—take your hands and your fucking bald head. And I think you may need those to drive, so go,” he chuckles hoarsely.  
  
Dom bites his lip and rolls his shoulders into a hard line, then walks out. In some battles, it’s best to not say anything.  
  
He finds Brian outside, leaning against one of the main pillars, dolled up in white again because the Ice Prince has cometh once more. True to Verone’s word, there’s not a bruise on him, not any that Dom can see from here.  
  
He looks the same, but there’s a definite sadness in his eyes; they’re nowhere near his usual steely calm. Dom swallows—hard, his throat feeling suddenly thick, and he looks away from Brian who still watches him. Dom’s many things: bold, brazen, persistent, but not stupid. And it if asks Brian to come with him, he’s only setting himself up to make another classic mistake. Succeeding at a job means leaving his wants, desires, feelings on the roadside of whatever avenue he’s being led.  
  
Brian won’t come with him, though Dom has no clue whether that decision is tied up in can’t or lack of want. He’s seen Brian look at him in a thousand different ways, but he still can’t read him. Like Fort Knox Brian is with his unreadable poker face. Brian’s loyal to a fault; all the trust and power given to Verone is disturbingly permanent.  
  
Dom sidles up beside Brian. “This it?” Because the passenger seat is his if he wants it.  
  
“Maybe. Hope not.” Brian gives Dom _that look_ , the one that precedes the variety of kisses that excite the nerves from head to toe, except he keeps kisses to himself. Dom knows the weight and feel of each, has them seared into memory, so he accepts Brian’s look of regret.  
  
Brian says, “We’re leaving for a while. Don’t know how long, but I hear Rio’s nice this time of year.”  
  
Going that far to put Brian out of Dom’s reach means he makes Verone nervous. “I think I heard the same.” Rio’s a long drive. Very scenic though.  
  
Brian nods, keeps his eyes trained on a distant point on the horizon. “If you ever feel like going, you can use these to get there.” Brian takes his time grabbing Dom’s nearest hand and turning it over to face palm side up. He drops the set of silver keys inside and curls his fingers over them, let’s his fingers graze over the well-earned calluses on Dom’s skin before he takes a step back.  
  
Dom gets a pang in his chest, so much like that damn dream that he almost drops the keys. He hopes the loyalty served up so willingly to Verone is appreciated. Because, fuck, Brian has his mind so tangled up thinking impossible things, revving to sin again because his lips are far too soft, his body is just hard enough to take Dom’s fury and ask for more, and because he gets Dom right to his very core.  
  
“We’ll see,” he offers, then drifts away off the steps and onto the drive.  
  
As Dom strays closer to his car, Verone suddenly appears in the door, stalking closer to Brian to fill the void at his side. He draws Brian near with one possessive hand slung low on Brian’s far side to join them hip to hip. The man who would be king dressed in black clutches his ice prince swathed in white, the expressions on their faces—polar opposites.  
  
Verone tilts his head whispering something in Brian’s ear as Dom eases behind the wheel and slams the door. Brian doesn’t look away, just tips his head to affirm Verone’s question. The engine growls, then shudders to a low twitching purr and Verone’s punchy grin travels hard and fast like the speed of light and Dom sets his foot to the gas.  
  
They all move now; each in a dissonant arch. Dom wraps around the fountain to ease up to the gate while Verone‘s hand swims over to grasp Brian’s wrist, then knots their fingers before pulling him inside the house. Black and white, they fade from view, leaving behind empty space and no reason for Dom to linger.  
  
He has a few stacks of cool cash, a new car and too much time on his hands.  
  
Outside the gate, he can go either right or left. Literal life decisions standing at each turn—Japan in one corner and Brazil in the other. He looks down at the seat, sees the money, the keys, and lets them decide for him.  
  
That night months ago before all of this started, Brian tells him to watch the road. It’s an open one as far as he can see. Dom looks down at the seat once more and makes a choice. He’ll watch the road, plans to do just that even with the line of detours in the way.  
  
He’ll see him soon.  
  
The End

* * *

 


	2. Loose-endin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carter reflects on moments in the past and future. Set in the Creep Verse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** A little on the experimental side. Some drabbles are as long as 300 words, others as few as 25. Title taken from the track "Loose-endin'" by Little T and One-Track Mike
> 
>  **Translations** :  
> Rubio:The Blond/Blondie  
> Bolero= epic Spanish poems (e.g. el Cid) or modern musical ballads

**On the beginning...**  
  
Once upon a time, he gets his car stolen.  
  
He’s eighteen and doesn't have time for this shit. It doesn’t take him long to track down the thief. Losing the car isn’t so much the issue, as it’s a piece of shit land-yacht of a Cadillac from the eighties, though he’s partial to its whitewall tires; it’s the principle of the matter.  
  
The first thing Carter notices about _his_ thief once he’s finally cornered in the alley adjacent to some mom and pop corner store is the cool tide of vibrant blue and electric white.  
  
His thief is beautiful, and Carter has always been attracted to beautiful things.  
  
The thief, a punk not much younger than Carter, stands silently with his back against the wall, barely restraining his defensive instincts. He puts on an air like he’s not intimidated in the least, while simultaneously evoking an image of a feral animal, ready to unsheathe its claws and arch its back. Those blue eyes glint back at Carter, reminding him of daggers—deceptively sharp and dangerous. Carter reaches out--he’s gotta touch because he never quite learned to not play with matches nor tread carefully over glass.  
  
So he approaches, saying, “In the old days when a man stole, they took his hand.” No, he doesn’t want this boy’s hand; he wants all of him. But first, he has to find a place to start.“Gotta name, Rubio?”  
  
“Brian,” the thief says.  
  
“Carter,” he formally introduces himself.  
  
He’s in Brian’s space, noses almost touching and Brian’s back coming just inches away from the graffiti splashed wall to meet him. They’re so close now; Carter can feel the air vibrate between them. Not an inch given with this one. And this close watching Brian’s eyes follow the movement of his lips as he licks the lower drier one is enough to seal the deal.  
  
"Steal from me again, and I’ll have more than just your ass, Rubio; now get in the damn car.”  
  
Brian’s a sixteen year old stray. He follows Carter like a cat stalking prey, making Carter laugh because Carter is many things but definitely not prey.  
  
They haven’t been apart since.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
**On Brian...**  
  
Brian’s never had anyone really give a shit about him other than his friend Rome. Carter cares more than a little bit about him. It doesn’t take a shrink degree to realize that Brian is messed up, that a bit of caring thrown his way with some genuine emotion behind it will garner lifelong loyalty. All of that focus on him, especially from its source, makes Carter’s chest puff out like a preening peacock because everything else is just icing on the cake. Something extra and sweet.  
  
Brian wanted him.  
  
And Carter is never going to let him go.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
**On kisses...**  
  
The first time he tries to kiss Brian, Carter gets a broken nose.  
  
The second time, a black eye.  
  
The third time’s the charm, and it’s just a busted lip because Brian kisses back, kisses Carter like he means it.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
**On his father...**  
  
His father is anchored by old world values and ideas. He is a Verone from Verona, believes that the success of a man’s business is the sum total of his ambition. Big ideas buoy him along with his uncanny ability of reading people and calculate odds between blinks of an eye. He’s got it all in check in Buenos Aires, and people know his name from Santiago to Caracas. He refuses to come to heel under the junta, give in to political pressure or just pay his way out of any investigations.  
  
He disappears when Carter is three years old.  
  
Unlike Brian’s old man, Giancarlo Ernesto Verone has no choice in his leaving.  
  
  
**His mother...**  
  
She names him Carter accidentally.  
  
Obsessed with Breakfast at Tiffany’s, she wants to name him Cartier. Wants it so much, she dreams about him being tough, sharp, and hard, beautiful to her like a diamond.  
  
He's born naturally resilient and the years only hone him to a more intricate state of coarse perfection.  
  
Carter becomes everything she ever imagined.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
**On love...**  
  
Sometimes they fight.  
  
He hits Brian and Brian hits him back. Brian leaves, takes off in that car of his and goes to ground. It takes everything he has to not destroy that fucking car, even though he’ll only get Brian a new one anyway. Maybe get him lojacked, Carter thinks, a infinitely better idea.  
  
He hates when Brian leaves.  
  
Sometimes, it’s for a few hours, a couple of days, and, even once, a couple of weeks. During that last one, Carter is so rattled, he almost makes mistakes, almost led them to war.  
  
When Brian finally returns-- all back straight, head high, eyes ready for a fight--Carter's breath is always loaded with alcohol. Because easy is crawling into a bottle; hard is saying the things he wants but won't ever allow himself to bring to the light of day.  
  
The first thing he does when Brian walks through the door is punch the ever-loving shit out of him. Cuts his lip, makes his mouth red and shiny, then licks away the blood nice and slow, making Brian a part of him again.  
  
Brian never tells him what he gets up to while he’s gone. Once, he manages to drive to California and hunker down in L.A. Even then, cutting across the country, Brian doesn’t stray, still loyal to a fault.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
**On other people...**  
  
He doesn’t deal with labels. Of the two of them, Brian gets the most flank because he’s just so goddamn _pretty_. The guys in their circles lack tack, sometimes foolishly calling him a cocksucker and earning an icy smile and a smartassed remark that only serves to piss them off more. Most of those guys learn the hard way that sticks and stones may break bones, but a bullet to the head kills anybody dead.  
  
The truth is Carter is the real cocksucker. Sure, Brian gives good head; he’s just aces. But Carter makes it into a game—cat and mouse—and he takes Brian anywhere and everywhere he wants him. In public, a dark corner of some hazy club, while Brian drives because it ain’t fun if there’s no danger to it.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
**On the past...**  
  
Carter doesn’t remember Argentina but it’s in his blood. Many things are in his blood, like violence, passion,the old country's traditions, and a lust for dangerous beautiful things.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
**On leaving Miami...**  
  
There’s a part of him that wants to spend their second to last day in their place drinking and listening to _boleros_ , singing off key and breaking everything within close reach.  
  
It's better to destroy the things he loves than leave them to people who can't appreciate them.  
  
Carter fiddles with a lighter, igniting the spark mindlessly--on and off, on and off--until he settles on the notion of razing the house through flames.  
  
“It’s such a nice house,” Brian says, after Carter shares the plan.  
  
Brian likes nice things, likes setting down roots even more. A quirk of his that Carter will forever find endearing.Carter feels the same about the house but the vindictive side of him wants to torch it, just to remove the ghost of Brian’s affair from the world. To salt and burn this place is the only means to exorcise such a nasty spirit and leave a permanent goodbye.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
**On looking back...**  
  
When he thinks back to those early days, he wants to give himself a pat on the back.  
  
He pops Brian’s cherry, though that time stands separately from the first time they fuck and the first time they make love. There's a big difference between each.  
  
He’s sentimental like that.  
  
In the beginning, Brian rides shotgun, and, later, he takes over driving. He’s good with figures, quick calculations, and knows people—like some sort of car psychic that can read a person just on their ride alone. Knows cops too.  
  
One time, he almost makes Carter piss himself laughing when he confesses over dinner at some greasy spoon that he wants to be one.  
  
Brian gets him back for that later, tries to scare him by making the engine redline and picking up a cop on their tail, which he manages to lose through exercised patience and knife-like smile.  
  
Carter sparingly laughs at him again.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
**On being masters of their choices aka free...**  
  
He buys a boat—a modest seventy footer yacht that makes them look downright destitute to those in their circle.  
  
In April, because it's just hot enough, they cruise to Bimini. It's just the two of them doing some big reef fishing and Brian diving off the shallow aft to snorkel, which Carter thinks is just fucking insane. Instead Carter smokes with a cigar so fine, it could've been rolled by God himself, and reclines in his jaunty, cooler than a summer's breeze captain’s hat and watches Brian emerge from the water, clear rivulets streaming down his face and chest, gleaming. Being here under this sun, with this man is like every post-mission James Bond fantasy come to life.  
  
But it's not.  
  
James Bond can fuck off because this--how they live and how they play is stone cold gangster.  
  
See, this is why the bad guys always get to play another day and the good guys, well, sometimes they just fade away...if they know what's good for them.  
  
**  
  
Miami: the crossroads of the Americas and the epicenter of his trade.  
  
Their place to start over.  
  
It's a modern day pirate’s cove; all souls welcome.  
  
With a view like theirs, they can see the entire city, from the Freedom Tower to the port to the bright lights across the bay.  
  
It's just a small kiss Carter brushes against Brian's lips, but there are still fireworks. Appropriate.  
  
**  
  
They do Paris on a whim and experience it through a tunnel of street lights, busy avenues, and dizzying forays into old and new. There are clubs full of old world decadence, conversations rife with talk of politics, revolution, and judgment from the most arrogant people to ever grace the planet.  
  
It all blurs.  
  
The heavy pulse of shitty trance dance music.  
  
Pissing near the Eiffel Tower and bastardizing the language of love.  
  
A menage a trois becomes a menage a sept, huit, neuf. Dix.  
  
Too much wine.  
  
Hop a plane home soaked in Grey Goose.  
  
Learn what it means to be alive.


End file.
